


without you i'm just a sad song

by klassmartin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional tethers are super handy when your life is constantly falling to crap, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lydia struggles to cope, Roscoe gets beat up again, Season 3, Stiles is kinda a dick to Malia, Stiles struggles with guilt, all of the angst, alternating povs, eichen house, mentions of past character death, mild drug use, season 4, season 5, underage alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-10 21:59:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5602552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klassmartin/pseuds/klassmartin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She closes her eyes and pulls his hand into her lap, thumb brushing over the healing skin of his knuckles, grazed after his frustration got the better of him last week. He waits, the tension throughout the car tasting like iron and grease and Lydia's shampoo. “I don't think I can lose you too."<br/>---<br/>Lydia and Stiles struggle with the life they never asked for, and find solace in each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Half of a whole

**Author's Note:**

> First of all...  
> HAPPY NEW YEAR! Welcome to 2016, where resolutions will probably be broken and many millions of people are waking up with killer hangovers.
> 
> It's been well over a year since I posted anything, but this has been in the works since mid season four and I finally felt like I was capable of finishing it. Forgot how hard writing was! Hopefully you guys enjoy it.  
> Post season four/Season five will continue in the next chapter because I'm yet to decide on my ending, but I want to post it before season 5b because after that this will probably be canon divergence.  
> Non-beta'd.  
> Title from Sad Song - We The Kings

A month after Eichen House, when Stiles is deemed physically and mentally okay, he gets in his jeep and goes for a very long drive.

It has been a horrible year. Between unintentionally leading his best friend into Peter's path and Jackson becoming a creepy lizard; the sacrifices and his dad very nearly dying under a weird and powerful tree stump; being overpowered by an ancient vengeful spirit and everything that was a direct result of it; Stiles has been broken down into something he can't quite recognise. When he stares at his hands he feels Scott's blood seeping through his skin. At school, when Lydia finds it in herself to speak, her scream for Allison once again reverberates through his bones. His dad looks more exhausted than ever and Stiles knows it is because of him, the fear of losing his last remaining family threatening to overwhelm.

Stiles carries a lot of guilt and death on his shoulders, and he’s buckling under the weight.

So maybe that's why he doesn't notice when he crosses state lines, or how he doesn't notice the sky grow as dark as his thoughts, or why he doesn't notice the woman and child crossing the empty road until he's seconds away.

There's a crash and his ears ring and he trembles for two lives he nearly added to the pile scorched into his soul. The mother rushes to make sure he is okay and he apologises more times than he can count, scanning them for injuries, promising he will get help and they should get back to the safety of their home - he knows all too well what goes bump in the night.

‘Get help’ has long meant calling Scott, and 168 minutes later, a small blue car pulls up behind him.

"Stiles Stilinski, get the hell out of your car!" Strawberry blonde blurs his vision as he is practically dragged by the five foot three whirlwind out of his poor battered Jeep. Her voice shocks him; it’s so rare he hears her speak these days. More often than not it’s monotonous, unlike now where the rage laced heavily with despair poisons his lungs and he can’t catch his breathe. "Don't you know anything about road safety? When you have an accident you're supposed to wait _outside_ the car, not inside when gas could be pouring out and making a giant expl-"

"Okay, okay, Lydia, I get it. I was just cold and ti-” He brushes off her anger, swatting her hands away when she tries to smack him around the head. The way her gaze burns makes him uncomfortable. “I screwed up, I’m sorry."

Scott claps him on the shoulder, fingertips digging in harder than necessary with concern. Stiles winces and Scott just responds by letting his hand slide down in time with his keen eyes, checking for any kind of injury. His nose wrinkles, like he can smell something is wrong. "You alright, man?"

Lydia huffs; Stiles sighs. "This is going to cost a fortune," he groans instead, because he doesn't know the answer - hasn't for a long time - so instead he inspects the significant dent the tree trunk has created in the front of his car. Smoke is billowing out of the engine and Stiles mildly panics that Roscoe might have finally had one accident too many.

There’s a cough and Stiles glances up on instinct, finally taking note of the worry etched into his best friend's face. Concerned, he wonders when his carefree, bumbling best friend became this man in front of him; he looks too old, too hard done by the world. Stiles used to be able to clearly picture the laughter lines on an elderly Scott McCall; now he struggles to remember the last time the alpha produced a truly happy smile.

_I guess we all look like that now._

Scott glances left and Stiles follows it, taking in the frazzled nature of Lydia's appearance, still wearing a pale pink pyjama set with a thick cardigan hanging off one shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, head down in shame, "I didn't mean to worry you."

Lydia scoffs, crossing her arms and stalking back to her car in a way that would frighten him if not for the mismatching heels she stamps in (which triples the guilt, because it’s not like they’re even similar looking; one is red with an open toe and the other is black with lace). Turning back to the boy in front of him, he attempts to gage Scott's mood - how much trouble he's in - just from the crease between the alpha's eyebrows. It doesn't look great for him, so he goes with a decoy from the conversation Scott clearly wants to have.

"Dad?"

"Thinks you're studying at mine."

"Thanks." Stiles pauses. "Did you really have to call _her_?"  
  
"She'd been trying to get a hold of you, called me just after you did.” Scott sighed, his shoulders sagging. In that one exhale, Scott appears to age another ten years, anxiety creasing around his eyes. "You know how she's been since -"

"I know," Stiles interrupts, because he won't make Scott say her name, not when everything is still so fresh.

"What did the doctors say?"

"All good. No need to worry about me."

“I’m always worried about you.” Scott's head tilts slightly, his perceptiveness once again an irritating skill. He watches Stiles scuff his toe in the dry mud. "You don't agree with them."

Stiles just shrugs, instead focusing his gaze on Lydia, who is glaring at him through her windscreen. He can’t remember how normal is supposed to feel, so how can he possibly know if he is okay? In frustration he stuffs his hands into his pockets, choosing to deal with a problem he has a slight chance of fixing. That seems easier than answering Scott’s question.

The death glare is interrupted by what looks suspiciously like a flicker of concern. He smiles shyly back, hesitates, then approaches, slipping through the still open passenger door into the empty seat.

Lydia now refuses to look at him, instead watching as Scott focuses his strength and pulls the Jeep out of the ditch. It creates an unbearable screeching sound, as though his precious Jeep is screaming in pain, and it takes most of his energy to keep flashbacks from _that_ time engulfing him. Instead, Stiles gnaws on his lip before proceeding. "You want to yell at me now or later?"

"You're an idiot," she whispers after a tense moment, and the razor sharp edge of concern in her tone surprises him. "What are you even doing out here?"

"I went for a drive."

"To Nevada?"

The car is quiet for a moment as Stiles tries to think of what to say, but before he can, Lydia speaks again. "I..." She touches her throat with quivering hands, like she's not sure how to form the words she wants to say. "I'm glad you're okay." Again she pauses, but this time it’s to face him and put her hand over his, eyes swimming with emotions he can't bear to name. "I-I don’t -” She closes her eyes and pulls his hand into her lap, thumb brushing over the healing skin of his knuckles, grazed after his frustration got the better of him last week. He waits, the tension throughout the car tasting like iron and grease and Lydia's shampoo. “I don't think I can lose you too."

He can only squeeze her hand in reply. Hopefully, she understands the return in sentiment.

It’s 3am by the time they can hit the road again, and even though they won't be home for at least another two hours, they tiredly get into their cars so they can be at school on time. Scott hesitates on which car to accompany (Roscoe had, by some miracle, groaned into life after some minor surgery from Stiles), before Lydia rolls her eyes and presses her keys into his hand, in the same move opening the Jeep door and sliding into the seat. The look shared between the boys is enough of a conversation; Scott hops into Lydia's car and Stiles clambers in beside her, badly styling out a minor stumble over a tree root. Before he can be embarrassed, he spies a smile ghost across Lydia’s pale lips, and it’s enough to make his own twitch up in a grin.

The journey is relatively quiet and Lydia falls asleep with her forehead against the window. He has to focus extra hard on the road to stop himself crashing again, though he’d much rather admire the cute paw print pattern on her pyjama pants, or the way her hand lies between them like she's reaching for him in her sleep. He ponders if her dreams are haunting like his own; full of bloodshed and bone deep fear, or if she has managed to escape the fate assigned to him.

She exhales and it sounds like his name, but he puts that down to wishful thinking.

 

* * *

 

Lydia isn’t really sure how Stiles went from the-troublemaker-in-second-grade to that-guy-who-won’t-stop-following-me-around to the-weird-best-friend-of-Allison’s-boyfriend to he-who-makes-me-drive-to-Nevada-in-my-fucking-pyjamas-because-I’m-so-worried. But he did. And she kinda doesn’t hate it.

It’s been six weeks since she broke about twenty laws getting to him on that open road in the middle of nowhere, and she has been watching him ever since. The doctors have all cleared him, declaring him healthy and somehow absent the brain damage they believed to be caused by frontotemporal dementia. Lydia had even persuaded Scott to get him checked over by Deaton just to be extra sure. In total she has half a dozen medical professionals all telling her the same thing - Stiles is completely fine.

They are wrong. She knows, something in her gut screaming it, different to a banshee kind of sure but still there. Lydia has learnt to stop trying to suppress and ignore her instincts. Things only go wrong when she tries that.

So on a late Saturday evening, Lydia wraps her knuckles confidently against the door of the Stilinski household, adjusting the hem of her shirt as she waits. The Sheriff answers and smiles pleasantly at her. “How can I help you, Lydia?”

“I need to see Stiles, please.” Her voice is sweet but it’s a demand, one the Sheriff is only too happy to comply with.

“You know the way.”

Lydia smiles gratefully and pads delicately up the stairs, knocking just once before throwing the bedroom open with a flourish. A hand over her eyes, she declares, “If you’re doing anything untoward, you have five seconds to correct it before I open -”

“Hey, Lyds.” Stiles’s voice is casual and distracted, not a tone she is used to him sending her way, and when she opens her eyes, she can see why. Stiles is sprawled across his bed on his stomach, one leg up in the air, while Scott is leaning against the frame below him, both with controllers in their hands and their eyes glued to the screen.

“Oh.” Lydia lets her surprise get the better of her for three seconds before dropping her bag to the ground and approaching the TV. With a manicured nail, she presses the power button, ignoring the yells in protest.

“Lydia, what the hell?!”

“Come on, I nearly had him!”

“Oh hush.” She dismisses their complaints with a wave of her hand, perching on top of the desk chair nearby. Crossing her legs, she stares at them until they comply and then smiles in gratitude. “We’re going out. Danny is getting us all in at Sinema and we are going to actually… Be normal. Be teenagers.”

Scott frowns. “Do we have to?”

Lydia rolls her eyes and instead turns her attention to her main target for the evening; Stiles, who is chewing on a fingernail as the cogs of his brain whir. A long moment passes but she doesn’t let her gaze deter, determined to make her plan a success. She’s about 79% sure he has her pegged, but she doesn’t let it sway her. There’s a flicker of something, for just half a second, that she knows means she is successful.

“Just one question.” Stiles jumps to his feet. “Does this mean you’re paying for drinks too?”

***

So her plan doesn’t go _exactly_ the way she wanted it to. She’d forgotten to factor in a very important detail; alcohol.

It had all started off innocent enough. After gathering a rather confused Kira and a thrilled Malia (who she wasn’t particularly keen having, but she had invited nonetheless) the five had snuck around to the back door, where Danny was waiting with his familiar smirk. Upon entering the club, Stiles had lit up just like the spinning disco ball above him, turning to the group in excitement.

“I can’t believe I am finally at a club for reasons that do not include psychopathic lizards or other such life threatening scenarios. You know what we need? Shots! Lydia’s buying!” And before she could protest, Stiles had practically bounced off into the crowd, his fingers tight around her wrist to keep her behind him.

Somewhere in that ensuing muddle, Malia had gotten lost in the ocean of dancers, Kira and Scott had declined drinks and found a quiet corner to chat, and Lydia and Stiles had kinda-accidentally-possibly done at least six shots of tequila.

“Wow,” Stiles hisses around the burn of the alcohol, “that stuff works fast.”

Lydia just lets her head fall back, eyes closed, the heavy beat vibrating in her bones. She has missed this feeling, of being normal and young and free and able to make stupid decisions and not have to worry about anything other than what others might say at school on Monday. She hums quietly, a melody too slow and bubbly to match the one pounding around her.

A hand skims her waist and she lazily lifts her eyes to Stiles’ face, admiring the way the alcohol has made his shoulders relax and his dark eyes glitter.

“If I ask you to dance, am I going to have to break out another heartwarming speech about how much I admire you?” His words are sloppy and he trips over his ‘s’s, and she giggles happily.

“As much as I’d love to hear that, I’m happy to just accept straight away.” She slips her hand into his, walking him into the fray as a slightly slower beat begins to thrum against her skin. Stiles, forever clumsy, stumbles into her more than once, and she tries to pretend she doesn’t enjoy the momentary pressure of his chest against her shoulder blades.

When she finds a suitable space, she turns expectantly to him, a soft smile lifting her rosy cheeks. He raises his arm and spins her slowly, her skirt picking up just at the edge. Stiles pulls her a little closer and she stares up at him, trying to remember why she had bought him here, and why she hasn’t done it sooner; this is already the best night she has had in awhile.

Stiles breaks the moment by haphazardly transitioning into the running man, which involves an alarming amount of flailing and a great deal of embarrassment on her part. After a minute, he stops, leaning back in his stance, crossing his arms and looking her up and down in a challenge. She scoffs, but the alcohol has made her fuzzy and warm and instead of protesting too long, she hands him her purse and launches into a perfectly executed chicken dance.

The dance battle continues for some time, until the pair are overcome with laughter. Lydia revels in the ease of it, committing the image of a flustered Stiles doubled over with hysterics to her memory. She never wants to forget this; how they are capable of this normality, of having fun, of enjoying life.

A face that makes her heart ache flickers through her mind, but instead of letting it drag her down into her grief, she lets herself continue to smile, knowing this is exactly what her best friend would want her to be doing.

 

* * *

 

The deadpool happens and life becomes a muddle of trying to survive and acute anxiety and Malia's smile. It’s innocent in a way the pack can no longer manage, and helping her with her humanity helps restore a little piece of his own.

Except the dead pool is stopped and Stiles watches as Lydia struggles to remain in one piece, the flood of new knowledge threatening to overwhelm. Learning that her banshee powers are hereditary and not completely Peter's fault is one thing, but the fragility of Meredith and what she had become weighs heavily on her, and Stiles finds himself sucked back into her vortex, trying to help her in any way he can. He spends countless nights trying to find new leads in their banshee research using their new information, arriving at her house to drive her to school so they can discuss anything new on the way. At weekends he tries to encourage her away from the solace of her bedroom, get her out of her own head, and it works about 30% of the time. The other 70% he spends watching reality TV and comedies on her bed, Lydia’s head resting delicately on his shoulder.

Malia unintentionally falls to the wayside, Peter’s betrayal zapping the innocence from her and yet it makes her more human, the pain of betrayal softening her to the people who stand beside her. Except towards Stiles; Lydia is an orbit he can never seem to escape. Malia refuses to share him, knows she deserves better than him, and so she confronts him after school one day. He promises to do better, despite knowing there’s no way of him keeping it. He thinks that she knows that, but Malia still slips her fingers between his and lets him lead her back to the Jeep.

Stiles tries not to see his relationship with Lydia as a betrayal towards Malia, but sometimes it’s hard not to.

“You’re doing it again.” A whisper tickles his collarbone and he glances down at the eyes that have seen far too much pain. “You’re thinking.”

“I like thinking,” he replies, shifting so her head tucks further into his neck, his arm still firmly around her ribs like she’ll float away if he doesn’t keep a good grip.

Lydia gives him that look that lets him know she’s seeing straight through his bullshit. “I thought we were supposed to avoid thinking tonight.” She points to the screen, the movie he’d forgotten all about still playing, colours too bright in a world where werewolves and demons don’t exist. “You can’t turn your back on your own reasoning.”

“Technically I said this was to stop you thinking. I never said anything about stopping my mind.”

Sighing, she slumps further into him. “Either way, you’re doing a terrible job. All this movie is making me do is think of all the scientific inaccuracies.” He opens his mouth to object, indignified at her claims, when she continues talking. “Let’s do something else.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” Her eyes scan around her living room. “Let’s go to a party.”

“It’s almost midnight.”

“So?” Lydia stands up, brushing out her skirt as she beams at him, her features lit up with an excitement that Stiles has missed seeing. “There’s gotta be a party somewhere. Let’s get drunk!”

They end up on Scott’s bedroom floor an hour later, a bottle of rum being passed between them because it was apparently the only alcohol Scott could find that Melissa wouldn’t miss. Scott laughs along with Kira as she tells them some kind of funny story, one that Stiles was present for but doesn’t have to heart to inform her of. Something about the way Kira tells it and how it makes Scott smile keeps him quiet.

Lydia sighs happily as the laughter dies down from the story. “I can’t believe I’m drinking rum like… What’s his name… Jack…”

“Sparrow,” Stiles finishes automatically, before doing his best rendition of the pirate he can manage while intoxicated. Lydia’s laugh is loudest of all and it makes his skin tingle in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol.

***

“Oh my god,” he groans some hours later, flopping onto his desk like someone’s just cut his strings. “I will never forgive you for this.”

Scott smirks at him from across the row. “It wasn’t my idea to get drunk on a school night.”

The real culprit almost stumbles through the classroom door, somehow managing to make it smooth enough that no one bats an eye. Lydia is, for the first time since seventh grade, wearing flat shoes, and she grunts as she falls ungraciously into her seat behind him, palm brushing his shoulder as she passes.

“Good morning, Lydia,” Kira says brightly, amusement glittering in her eyes as she observes the pair. “How are you doing?”

Lydia drops her forehead to the cool wood of her desk. “I will slit your throat with my very human nails.”

“I’m great, too, thanks for asking.”

 

* * *

 

Lydia knows rationally that this is probably the stupidest thing she's ever done.

(Which, if she was capable of really thinking about it, probably says a lot considering all the dumb shit she's done in her life.)

However, as she lies on the dewy grass, stoned out of her skull, she can't find it in herself to do anything other than laugh.

It’s a pleasant feeling, one she wasn't really expecting when she had accepted the joint from the random guy at the beach party, but she enjoys the way it makes her feel numb all over, how her skin hums with the heat of the driftwood fire. The smell no longer burns her nose, and now, for the first time in... A large measure of time, she feels happy.

"So how're you feeling?" The boy mumbles beside her, and she can’t remember what he looks like or who he is but her eyes are transfixed on the sea a short distance away. The gentle waves against the shore are the perfect soundtrack to the moment and if she just closed her eyes for a moment, maybe she could drift away...

"S'quiet," she whispers to the twinkly stars. "They're gone."

"Your friends?" The boy glanced at her, shaking his head. The action makes him a blur and she giggles at how funny he looks with three noses. "Oh, no, they're over there still."

"Shh," she chastises, waving a floppy hand towards him. She struggles to remember his name, but thinks she might not have even asked. "Jus' be shh."

Lydia doesn't want to talk. She wants to remember how this feels forever, to stay in this moment for the rest of her years; immune to the pain of death.

 

* * *

 

Scott drives them home and Stiles strokes her hair in the back of the car, letting her sleep off the marijuana in her system.

A stranger had alerted him to her whereabouts when he began to realise she'd been gone too long just to be getting drinks for the group, and he'd carried her in his arms until his best friend was there to better support the deadweight of a passed out Lydia. He sighs as he recalls the panic bubbling in his lungs from seeing her lying so still on the sand, unwanted memories of a time he wishes he could erase clawing at his mind. Only when he had cautiously said her name did she shift, a crease between her brows growing deeper as she fidgeted for some kind of physical contact.

The drive is silent apart from the occasional hiccup of a drunken Kira. Scott holds her hand and Stiles is glad the alpha has found someone who has helped him heal and makes him happy. Stiles thinks he'd be content if only Scott got his happy ending, out of the two of them - he doesn't deserve his, but Scott deserves all the happiness in the world.

The next morning he wakes up with a kink in his neck and a mass of hair overtaking his vision. Large blinking eyes peer back and he jumps back, the extra space helping to take in the scene before him. Lydia leans over the edge of his bed, bare legs tangled in his sheets in a way that his fourteen year old self would have probably gone into heart failure over. Eyeliner is smeared under her eyes and her hair sticks up on one side, and she smacks her lips together at the taste of something obviously unpleasant.

"Why does my mouth taste like this?" she croaks. Her green eyes dart around the room. "Also, what happened?"

"You got stoned with a stranger and passed out next to the fire. Figured it was best not to let your mother see you like, uh, this. You looked rough and I didn’t really fancy facing her rage at 3 in the morning." (Morning Stiles has even less of a filter than usual Stiles.)

She blinks. "Okay."

Stiles glances down at his makeshift bed on the floor where Lydia is also starring. She purses her lips. "I apologise."

This catches him off guard and he sees the shame flash across her features and his heart drops to his stomach. "Don't be ridiculous." Without letting her speak again, he walks out of the room, returning with a glass of water to see her sitting up, hair tamed and some of the smudges rubbed away. Handing her the drink, she gulps it down in one go.

"Thanks," she breathes, and it’s the first genuine smile he can recall seeing from her in some time.

He walks backwards towards the door, wringing his hands together. "I'm gonna get a start on breakfast - blueberry pancakes, right? - and you're welcome to shower if you want to borrow whatever you need, towels are -"

"Under the sink." Her smile growing as he almost trips over his feet. "I know."

"Yeah." He pauses at the open door. "I think you have some spare stuff in the..." He gestures towards his wardrobe and then ducks out of the room.

As Stiles sets about finding everything he needs in the kitchen, he thinks back to the time when Lydia would often stay at the weekends - sometimes even during the week - when they had become real friends through their shared skills in research and not having much else to offer to the pack. Their friendship had changed since then, mostly due to his possession and the events that followed. Before the night in Nevada, he had worried that the death of her best friend had created irreparable damage between them, and then after that time had been filled with planning trips to Mexico and fighting Berserkers and Kate Argent not being able to stay dead. The fallout of that, as well as the dead pool, meant they had never really got the chance to get back on track. Maybe, he thinks, they can start on that now.

"I will never understand how you can burn something like mac and cheese but make the best pancakes on the planet." Lydia lifts her nose into the air as she inhales the smell and he takes the opportunity to stare openly at her in his - yes, that's correct, his - favourite deep green sweater and a tight pair of yoga pants.

She catches him staring at what likely seems like her chest but is actually just him admiring how the colour of the sweater makes her eyes glitter (is that even possible? Lydia has certainly made it so). Instead, he attempts with a distraction. "That's because I learnt from the best."

Lydia steps towards him with a hesitation he's not used to seeing in her. "I really am sorry, you know. About last night. It was stupid, and I knew it was, I just..."

"Needed to escape," he supplies for her when she doesn't continue. He busies himself with flipping a pancake, turning his back to her so she can have her vulnerable moment to herself. Lydia has never been one to let herself be anything but confident and self-assured in public, and knows the moments she lets anything outside of that peak out are ones she prefers not to share.

When she doesn't say anything for a long moment, he puts down the large plate of pancakes and turns to see her swipe furiously at the tears on her cheeks, as though they are a sign of weakness and not a sign of her healing.

"Hey," he says softly, wrapping gentle fingers around her wrist to stop her rubbing at her face, "no, don't do that, don't hide from me."

"I'm so - so fed up of crying!" she practically spits out, tugging against his hold with little enthusiasm.

"You're allowed to cry Lyds, it's not as if we've had the most amazing year."

"No!" And the sobs flow freely, she throws herself at him, chipped nails clawing at his arms as the toll of the past few months threatens to crush her. "I-I can't - I won't be this - this wreck! W-Why can't I just... Just be control?"

Stiles doesn't know how anything he can say can fix the cracks, so instead he just holds her tightly as she falls apart.


	2. With you I'm alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles makes an impossible choice; Lydia goes missing, and the race is on to save her.
> 
> Covers all of season five (some speculative, based on promos etc.).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know. This story is complete trash but who the hell cares, I'm too excited for Tuesday to think about anything else!  
> A lot of this chapter is based on my theories for the content of 5b. Some is just based on my deep rooted desire to see my babies together. The end is pure, extra matured, cheddar cheese, with a sprinkling of corny and a extra fluffiness.

The deadpool has been over for six months now, and Stiles is beginning to allow a flicker of hope to develop that maybe, just maybe, they might get to have a normal senior year. He starts planning for the future - not just his, but all of their futures, because he can’t survive without any of them, even little Liam, the IED. A week later and Stiles is kicking himself, hating that he thought for just a moment that Beacon Hills could ever be _normal_.

Chaos erupts: people die. Teenagers become science experiments, and Theo tears them apart.

Stiles ends a life, without the aid of any ancient spirits or mind control. A person dies by his hand, and a piece of him is torn away, the piece that the Nogitsune had almost taken but he had clung to because everyone had assured him _you are not a killer, Stiles. You didn't do anything wrong_.

Scott can't see it past it. Can't understand how his best friend is capable of murder, no matter how much Stiles pleads him to understand.

Life couldn't get much worse, right? Stiles is sure this is as bad as it gets. Except Theo presents him with a sickening choice. How do you choose between two of the people you love most in the world?

(He makes his choice.

He can't lose another parent; he just _can't_. Hopefully, Scott can fight, can survive. If he doesn't, Stiles thinks his heart might just give out.)

Stiles is pacing the waiting room of the hospital, cursing how familiar this goddamn room is to him, hands trembling with despair and fear and grief. His dad is in surgery, and no one will tell him anything else, and he can’t get hold of Melissa to find out answers for him, and Scott isn’t picking up and Theo’s words are thundering in his ears, _you can’t help Scott and save your dad’s life._

Oh god oh god oh god oh god -

_You can’t help Scott and save your dad’s life._

He is going to _kill_ Theo. He keeps seeing him in Donovan’s place, blood dribbling out that twisted smirk of a mouth, eyes fading, limbs twitching, and he wants to press his palms against his sagging shoulders, push until Theo screams with the agony, can finally feel how much this hurts, all the damage and destruction he has done to the pack, to the tattered remains of his friendship with Scott, to the loss of Liam’s innocent heart, to Lyd-

Oh no. Lydia.

In his haste to make contact, Stiles drops his phone, and he almost screams with the frustration of it, falling to his knees and blindly pressing in the order of touches he knows he needs to call her. There’s a crackle and it begins to ring, and he’s holding his breath to keep the panic attack at bay, and he hears a click and is about to speak when the line goes dead.

He blacks out for two and half minutes.

He only comes to with a sharp sting across his cheek, and Melissa McCall is staring him down in the middle of a pile of upturned chairs.

 

* * *

 

The good news; his father lives. Scott lives.

The bad news; Lydia Martin has been missing for three days, seven hours and twenty six minutes.

For forty-eight hours, deputies have been combing the town for any trace of her. Scott, barely healed, has been attempting to track her scent. Malia is gone. Liam is in hiding. Kira is still unreachable. Stiles has tried everything, from hacking her phone’s GPS signal to tracing her credit cards. When his father sleeps (which is most of the time), Stiles is out, trying desperately to find just a hint of her, using any means he can think of.

It doesn’t work. None of it works. And Stiles takes his anger out on the one person he trusted to take care of her.

Scott doesn’t fight back.

_If you die, I will go out of my freaking mind._

On day four, Stiles is relaying all the information he can think of on Lydia’s case to his dad, too anxious to stay seated. The Sheriff’s eyes track him at the foot of the bed, nodding whenever his son glances up, providing suggestions when he pauses.

“Stiles!” There’s a crash of wood hitting plaster, and two pairs of eyes take in the way Scott’s eyebrows pull together, how he gasps for oxygen to be able to create words. “Stiles, thank God - they found her.”

_I don't want to lose you too._

He doesn’t waste another second. Racing faster than the wolf, Stiles darts down the corridors of the hospital, heading straight for the ICU. He doesn’t know how, but he knows she’s there. Can almost hear her heartbeat pounding in his ears.

One wisp of strawberry blonde is all he needs, and he’s suddenly at her side, breath stuck as he takes in the sight of her. Instinctively he takes her freezing hand in his, shaky fingers fumbling to find a pulse. There are already tubes laced in and out of her for oxygen and fluids and a hundred other things he can’t bear to think about. Her eyes are taped shut and mud is caked across one side of her hair, untidy streaks suggesting it had once been across her face too. There are slivers of bandages from the back of her neck, and he almost sobs at the large split in her blue lips, the grazes across her arms that aren’t covered by the hospital gown. Natalie Martin is sitting on the other side of the bed, crying loudly into a damp tissue. Stiles wonders how long she’s been here, how long they have kept Lydia’s return from him.

“Parrish found her,” Scott begins from behind his left shoulder. “They had to heavily sedate her. She’s um, she’s dehydrated, and probably suffering from exposure but… She’s not physically injured.”

Stiles tries to swallow this information down, but his throat is dry and his lungs ache. He can’t bear to look away for a second. “Her neck?” he croaks instead.

“I think - “ Scott pauses, and Stiles thinks he hears the alpha’s breath hitch. “I think Theo -”

“Oh.”

“Apparently she was by the -”

“Can you fix this?” Natalie finally looks up them, the first indication that she has registered their presence. “I know that you - that her friends aren’t… You’re not normal.” Natalie sobs. “Can you fix this?”

Both boys wish they had an answer that wasn’t, “I don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

 

Lydia is pronounced catatonic the following day, and moved to the psychiatric ward.

For a week, Stiles’ days become a blur of standing vigil at her bedside (the nursing staff have refrained from escorting him out, despite him knowingly breaking the rules) to preparing his dad to move back home to trying to figure out what the hell Theo is up to with his risen-from-the-dead pack of chimeras with Scott. The two have formed an uneasy alliance, wordlessly agreeing to put all personal problems to the side in order to save the town and their friends.

Unsurprisingly, Stiles hates the psychiatric ward. He remembers every hallway, every framed art print, every nurse from his mother’s time here. He remembers sitting by her bedside, rambling on and on about the pretty redhead he declared to be his future wife, and he finds it cruel that a decade later, he’s stroking that same fiery hair, praying to anything that can hear him to _please, don’t take her too, please let her stay with me, I can’t lose her, please_.

He has no idea then, quite how cruel this world can be.

 

* * *

 

Two months pass. Stiles wishes he could forget every moment.

Theo is gone. Half his pack is dead - by some miracle, Hayden survives, chooses to stay, while Tracy flees to escape the memories. Chris has returned to Mexico, offering a ride to Braeden, who can at least return to Derek with some positive news. All physical wounds have healed. Somehow, they have managed to escape the latest horrors with minimal casualties.

The pack have been sutured back together, bonds beginning to heal, trust starting to be re-earned. Scott finally knows the truth about Donovan. Malia has so far escaped the wrath of her birth mother. Kira is once more in control, and Lydia - well, she’s alive.

Things will never be the same for her, but she appears to be taking it in her stride, oddly at peace with the cruelty she suffered at the hands of those in Eichen House. Stiles tracks her recovery through stolen glances at her chart, refusing to leave her alone with any medical professional other than Melissa, and endless hours meticulously spent observing her every word, move, and breath.

A lot of things have changed, but his connection with Lydia seems to have only strengthened. After rescuing her from arguably the evillest place in Beacon Hills, she had essentially demanded his presence in some form or another every moment since. She had lain in the animal clinic for more hours than he dared to count, Stiles maintaining a strong grip on her right hand while his other drummed endlessly against the cold steel of the examination table. Scott had remained on her left side, eyes flashing red in fury every time he caught a glimpse of the now bandaged hole behind her ear. Stiles often caught Scott grunting in concentration, trying in vain to ease her pain so that maybe she could wake up and return to them. Stiles knew it was useless. Her agony wasn’t physical.

The following day, after all possible tests had been run to determine any supernatural interference towards her condition, Scott and Stiles had supported a now conscious Lydia into the Jeep. Fingers still clumsy and weak, she had gripped Stiles’s shirt until he understood, climbing into the back seat and letting her curl into him, Scott driving them towards the hospital. Upon their arrival, Stiles only allowed her to be taken from him after Melissa had sworn on her son’s life to never leave the banshee’s side. Only then had he pried her fingers from his shirt, pressing a kiss to her raw knuckles in a silent promise to return to her side as soon as he could. Lydia had burst into tears, and Stiles had to turn away before the image of her face crumpling in pure fear was scorched into the back of his eyelids. It didn’t matter. He knew he’d remember that moment until the day he died.

Scott had called Natalie. “Lydia is at the hospital. Please, let us help her this time. We can fix her.”

For the next two weeks, Lydia remained in the hospital. The Sheriff had allowed Stiles to skip school for the first five days, then demanded he actually try to pass his senior year. As a compromise, Stiles called her every morning, keeping the line open throughout his drive to school, and then placing her on speaker so she could hear the teachers in his classes, as well as his sarcastic quips that, despite having to have her on mute so he didn’t get detention, he knew slowly began to make her chuckle. At the end of the school day, he would race straight to the hospital, where he would unpack his homework, hand over hers, and they would study in quiet contentment.

When Lydia is released, she is under strict orders to remain on bed rest for at least a week. This, typically, doesn’t appeal to her in any way, and Stiles is horrified to find her sitting in his Jeep that very day, just hours after returning home.

“Gah!” He stumbles back, gripping the car door for dear life. Registering that the person in his beloved Jeep is not, in fact, some kind of murderous creature set on, well, murdering him, Stiles clambers into the driver’s seat to get a better look at the banshee. “Lydia? What the… Why are you not in bed?” he demands, and he can see how her eyes droop from exhaustion. Her hands are trembling, a psychological side effect to her time in hell, and he folds them inside of his own, thumb stroking against the side of her pinkie.

“I’ve been stuck in a bed for far longer than I can bear. I needed some fresh air.” Lydia shrugs off his concern, scooting across the seats until her shoulder is pressed against his arm.

“You could have just opened a window.” Stiles tries to remain angry, but honestly, it’s so good to see her upright and not in a hospital gown that he moves one hand to wrap her into a hug, pulling her closer still. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, a little tired,” she allows. He’s pleasantly surprised to actually see her eyes shining, her cheeks flushed without the aid of her make up. Stiles hasn’t actually seen her wearing any for months now, but he’s glad to see she has delved into her wardrobe, her shoes the same flats he remembers from the day they had both stumbled into school hungover, her legs in a cosy looking pair of leggings, her shirt loose and long, the olive green bringing out the colour of her eyes. She is dazzling to him, so beautiful despite everything she has been through that he had been unable to protect her from, still completely perfect to him in every way.

“How do you feel about grilled cheese and the latest Emma Stone movie?”

Lydia grins at him, his world lighting up again, and he chuckles as Roscoe growls to life on the first try. After driving her home, he reassures Natalie that Lydia is, in fact, completely unharmed, and had just decided to do the foolish thing and completely ignore her doctor’s recommendations. Lydia just rolls her eyes at that, easing herself into a bar stool in the kitchen, emerald eyes never leaving him as he makes far too many sandwiches for the two of them. Once ready, Stiles insists she return to her bed, and true to his word, Stiles loads up the film and they eat in a comfortable silence. Soon after, Lydia drifts to sleep, rolling into his side until her head is pressed into his chest. Stiles recalls all the nights he has spent in this room, just like this, when she had been too distraught to leave her room and he had stayed until she had fallen asleep, when he would ease her head down to her pillow and sneak out of the house.

Mostly by accident, he doesn't get to the sneaking-out part. Instead, he lets himself relax into the first restful night sleep he can recall for a long, long time.

That is pretty much how he ends up spending every evening in the Martin household, only leaving when Natalie insists, returning a half hour later under the cover of darkness through her bedroom window. Lydia will give him a sleepy smile, and after kicking off his shoes, he lies down beside her, arm out for her to curl in next to him. Together they can sleep. Together, they can keep the nightmares at bay.

 

* * *

 

 

Malia hasn’t stopped frowning in his presence for a while now, and he knows it’s coming. The accusations, the denial on a technicality, the fights, then the truth spilling free. He knows it’s unfair to keep it from her; knows he is breaking the promise he knew he couldn’t keep; knows how horrible a boyfriend he is being to her, but he’s a coward. Every time he chickens out, Scott sighs, shakes his head, but keeps quiet. They aren’t yet in that place yet, where Scott can demand he do the right thing and Stiles trust he knows best. They’re better, improving day by day, but they are yet to hit that point.

Thing is, Stiles can’t remember the last time he actually considered himself Malia’s boyfriend. Ever since she had told him she knew about Donovan, things had been strained between them, and the more distant the two became, the further he pushed her away. Too many things were falling apart then, that it just became easy to let his relationship simply become another casualty of the Dread Doctors.

One night in mid December, Stiles turns up at Lydia’s two hours later than his usual post-school schedule. Lydia opens the door to him with a sad smile, holding out a pint of his favourite ice cream, and he hates that she knows and yet she has no idea. Because Stiles had never expected them to last forever, and though he still feels saddened by the loss, he is mostly just relieved he can stop pretending that it hasn’t been Lydia who has really had his heart the whole time.

 

* * *

 

 

The enhancement in Lydia’s powers causes fugue states without the requirement of finding a body. The first, in the middle of the night, he is able to be present for, keeping her safe within her room as her powers overwhelmed.

The second, five weeks later, is the opposite.

She looks terrifying. Her hair hangs in a sopping mess around her face, eyes wide and unseeing, clothes hanging off her and despite the distance he can see the quiver in her chin, the way her hands tremble. The lacrosse stick falls from his grasp and he runs through the unaware players still playing, throwing his head gear somewhere, anywhere, because all he cares about is reaching her.

"Lydia!" he yells through the rain, desperate and ignoring the Coach's outrageous cries towards him. "Lydia!"

She falls into his arms like a single thread had been holding her up and it has just snapped. The smell of rotting leaves fills his nose and he knows not to ask, knows already why she is here. Hands press into his shoulders as if she is trying to morph their bodies into one entity. Lydia trembles in his arms and he uses his arms around her to keep her upright, to be the rock she needs. People stare and he tries to shield her. She doesn't need their judgement; she needs help. Lifting her up into his arms, Stiles carries her into the locker room.

“It’s okay, Lydia, you’re okay.” Her nails press further into the skin behind his ear. Cold lips brush against his hammering pulse.

“Cold,” she whispers. “Stiles…”

He steps under the steaming shower, sinking to the floor and holding her tightly in his lap as water pours down on them. Lydia pulls herself impossibly closer, seeking his body heat, and he strokes her sodden hair with one hand as the other rubs at her bare arm.

Time passes, he has no idea how much, but eventually she lifts her forehead from his neck, staring up at him with the most tragically beautiful gleam to her eyes. He wants to take all her pain away, to find the way that makes her finally happy, whatever the cost. For a moment, he wonders if that’s even possible, after all they’ve been through.

Lydia brushes the fringe from his face and cups his cheek, a smile twitching at her blue tinged lips. "Let's go home," he says, pulling her to her feet. She changes into his spare clothes and he into whatever he can scramble out of his gym bag. With his arm looped around her back, he leads her to the parking lot, her body burning into his side where they touch.

He wakes up the next morning with his hand pressed against her spine, her forehead against his temple and her nose grazing his cheek. Stiles feels her heartbeat skip and gentle fingers graze his cheekbone. Without a second thought, he turns the few degrees it takes to press a sweet kiss against her shy smile.

 

* * *

 

 

They don’t talk about that night for long enough that Stiles convinces himself it was a dream. He pretends everything is normal and fine and gets on with his life much like before, the only difference now being that every time he goes to shower after lacrosse practice, he’s forced to remember how terrifying the whole ordeal had been.

It’s a Sunday morning when he turns up to her house after an unplanned night of researching Banshees. He’s buzzing from the information he’s stumbled upon despite the complete lack of sleep, and he twitches in anticipation as he hears feet on the staircase. The door swings open a moment later and Lydia is lounging against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised at him. He’s about to apologise for intruding so early, but Lydia sweeps any rational reasoning away when she steps forward and kisses him for a long moment.

When she pulls away, she giggles, her fingers tucked into the neck of his shirt. He gapes at her, trying to figure out where the hell that came from, when she sighs, her breath drifting along his collarbone. “I thought you were never going to show up.”

“I…” Stiles can’t stop staring at her mouth, swallowing his shock down audibly. “Was I, uh, were we supposed to meet today?”

Lydia rolls her eyes and it’s then he sees it. The blown pupils, the droopy eyelids, how her smile leans to one side. “No, stupid, but I’ve been waiting for you to kiss me again since last week!”

Stiles shuffles her inside, kicking the door closed so he can keep a grip on her hips. “Are you high?”

“Yes,” she answers immediately, and in the same breath, “Now are you going to just stand there or are you finally gonna finish what you started?”

It’s a very confusing moment, only further exacerbated by Lydia’s hands going on some kind of adventure along the waistband of his jeans. “What are - Why are you - Lydia -”

Her lips are back on his and she tastes of cherries and smoke and he unintentionally loses himself in it, fingers raking through her loose hair, eliciting a small moan from her.

“Wait, stop, what are you doing?” Back to his senses, Stiles presses on her shoulders enough to get her to look at him in surprise.

“Don’t you want to?” she mumbles, and the suggestion in her tone tugs at a part of him that he needs to subdue right now.

“Yes, of course, Lyds but -” He gently pushes her back when she tries to lean towards him again. “You’re high!”

Lydia rolls her eyes and huffs. “Yes, we’ve covered that.”

“But why?!”

She shrugs. “Why not?”

“Because it’s a Sunday morning and you’re alone and since when do you get stoned?”

Clearly seeing this wasn’t going anywhere, Lydia turns sharply away from him and pads into the kitchen. “Relax Stiles, it’s not a big deal.”

He follows her, still dumbfounded, and finds a glass. “On the contrary, it’s a huge deal. You’re doing drugs.”

“Pot is hardly dangerous. It just takes the edge off.” Sitting at the breakfast bar, she accepts the water he thrusts towards her, taking large gulps that occasionally dribble down her chin. “Oops.”

When she’s finished he takes the glass and holds his hand out for her. “Right, come on, you’re going to bed.”

Lydia happily accepts and steps so close their toes touch. “Finally. Come on, shirt off.”

Her hands have almost completely disappeared under the hemline when Stiles stops them with his own. “No, Lydia, you need to sleep this off. Then we can talk.”

“Talking is boring, I’d much rather do something fun with you.” A long nail trails down past his bellybutton and Stiles can’t suppress the shiver it sends up his spine.

“Lydia…”

“Come on, Stiles,” she whispers into his ear, and his mouth goes dry. “I know you want this too.”

His fingers dance of their own accord at her waist, but just as Lydia presses one hot kiss under his jaw, he sweeps her up and over his shoulder, ignoring her screams of protest and starting towards the stairs.

“Stiles what are you doing?!” she squeals, kicking her legs for a moment until she pauses. “Though I suppose the view could be worse.”

“You can check out my ass after you’ve slept.” Okay, so he’s encouraging her, but if it makes this easier it’s worth it right?

“I want to bite it,” she giggles and he almost drops her when she squirms to get lower. Luckily he makes it to the top of the stairs.

“I can’t wait until you’re sober,” he chuckles. Even though it’s not true in the slightest; when she’s sober, there’s going to be a very awkward conversation he doesn’t really want to have.

“Can you put me down now? I feel queasy.” He allows her request and she walks unsteadily into her room, dropping onto her bed quite ungraciously. Lydia hums as she smiles at the ceiling, while Stiles crinkles his nose at the smell. On the windowsill, he can see a lighter and a small grinder.

“Okay, in you get.” He lifts the sheets and she climbs inside, her eyes closing the second her head hits the pillow. He turns to leave but a hand grips his forearm.

“Stay?” Green eyes shine at him and he feels himself melting at her touch.

“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” he hesitates, remembering what had happened last time. “How about, I’ll sit at your desk, get on with some homework or something. You won’t be alone then.”

But her grips tightens and her eyes begin to glisten. “Can you at least hold me until I fall asleep?"

Stiles relents, because he’d do anything for her, stoned or not. He lays down beside her and links his hand with hers, kissing her knuckles softly. Shuffling closer, she lays her head on his shoulder and he feels her eyelashes on his collarbone as she closes her eyes. So quietly he almost misses it, she whispers, “You’re too good for me, Stilinski.”

He kisses her forehead and wraps an arm around her. If only she could know how absolutely perfect she is to him.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles wakes up some period of time later, only noticing the change from the direction the light comes into the room. Lydia is already awake, her head propped up on hand as she smirks at him. Apparently, sleeping hadn’t helped all that much.

“Your snoring is kind of adorable,” she informs him, as he frowns sleepily at her.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” he murmurs, rolling to his side to get a better look at her. Once more her eyes are clear and her pupils respond to his movements, her gaze flickering over him. So maybe the sleep had helped.

“I woke up, obviously.” She bites her lip thoughtfully. “I’m sorry, for -”

“It’s fine,” he interrupts, wincing at the memory and the implications.

“I didn’t want... _that_ … to happen like that.”

Stiles pauses, mouth already open to release her of her guilt when her words register. “Excuse me?” he asks instead.

There's a twitch at the corners of her lips and a soft fingertip traces the line of his jaw. “I’ve been waiting all week for you to kiss me again but you didn’t, and then you showed up and I just… Couldn’t wait any longer. I didn’t really want to be under the influence at the time but, I guess the heart wants what the heart wants as soon as it wants it.”

Lydia’s words echo around his brain and it takes a few minutes to fully absorb what she’s saying. He just stares at her, for the first time in his life lost for words. Her thumb brushes against his bottom lip and she waits patiently, a smile settled on her lips like she’s incapable of stopping.

“Lydia…”

Her laughter clears the fog of his mind and her hand on his neck is like someone finally pressing play on his reactions. “Would you just shut up and ki- _Oh_!”

 

* * *

 

Stiles learns two very important things that day.

One. He can be loved for who he truly is, for everything he's done, for everything he is as a damaged, rambling idiot of a human being who has been shoved into the secret world of the supernatural. By Lydia, one of the most caring people he has ever had the pleasure of meeting. She will disagree with this statement, remind him of her “dumb bitch” phase, to which he will roll his eyes and remind her of this.

Stiles knows her a lot better than that, has always known, he supposes. Lydia's heart has long been something he marvelled, and experiencing it, seeing it so prominently in action makes his toes wriggle with the sensation. She keeps it well hidden, wandering around life with an air that implies she doesn't care for much, that she traps most on the outside of a wall that cannot be climbed. Except he's seen how she has been softened by her friendship with Allison, how she accidently let her in and realised how wonderful people could be. He's seen the way she quietly aids Malia, not in obligation to the pack, but because she wants to see the were-coyote assimilate and achieve, despite her hesitation towards actually befriending the girl. Stiles has seen as her heart has grown to fit the pack she initially tried to reject, how she now fights in whatever way she can for it. Lydia hides her heart, but he knows with no shade of doubt it is the most beautiful he has come across. How he is lucky enough to be loved by her, he has no idea.

The second thing he learnt; life sucks, but not all the time. It's testing and often beats you down, and it's hard sometimes to see the point in it all. But there's are moments and things and people that can shine through that darkness, and it is that glimmer of hope and love and happiness you must cling to. Stiles knows how truly lucky he is to have such an amazing father, to have had such a devoted mother. He has a best friend that looks out for him, protects him, and they aren't a perfect pair but their bond gets them through because they're so infinitely ingrained into each other. Surrounding him are a group of people that irritate and confuse him, but they would all lay down their lives for one another. Some already had. And Lydia. He has her. He loves and adores her, and she relies on him as much as he relies on her. Their lives are messy and full of monsters, but it doesn't have to destroy them. They can pull through as long as they keep trying.

Stiles may not need an anchor in the same way as Scott, but he needs one to keep him sane. He doesn't need to be his own anchor, his family and friends are that for him. Lydia is that for him. Together they can make it through. 


End file.
